by Timothy Zahn
"Sorry," she apologized, glancing quickly around. Daulo was indeed alone. "I thought you might be in trouble," she added, dropping her hands back to her sides.
"I am," he sighed, walking unsteadily to the couch and sinking into it. "But you're in more. They know who you are."
"They who?" Jin asked, her heartbeat picking up again. "Mangus?"
"Worse. The Shahni." He hissed between his teeth. "I just had a visit from one Moffren Omnathi and two of his men. They've identified you as the outworlder they're looking for. I managed—maybe—to persuade them that you'd stolen my car and headed north toward Sollas."
Jin took a moment to digest that. She'd known it would happen eventually. But she hadn't expected it quite so soon. "Did you tell them we'd been working together?"
"Do I look stupid?" he snorted. "Of course not. I played the total innocent, telling them you were a stranger who'd talked me into bringing you to Azras and then disappeared. Fortunately—I guess—they found that signaller you left, and decided you'd used it to listen for me to go to sleep so you could sneak in and take my car keys."
Jin bit at her lip. "As good a theory as any, I suppose. I just hope they didn't make it up just to make you think they believed you."
"Well, they left, didn't they?"
"Maybe. Did you actually see them go?"
"I saw the car pull away, yes."
"One car? Because there were two here when I drove up."
Daulo muttered something under his breath and started to get to his feet. "Should I—?"
"No, don't look out," Jin stopped him. "If they spotted me coming in, it's too late. If they didn't, you don't want to seem unusually suspicious."
Daulo exhaled a ragged breath. "I thought they seemed too willing to believe me. God above. I hoped they were accepting my words because of my family's position."
"More likely they just weren't sure enough to arrest you. Or else backed off in hopes that you'd lead them to me." Jin glanced at the curtained window, wondering what devices the Qasamans might have for looking through cloth and glass. But if they were doing so, again it was already too late. "They didn't have any photos of me, did they?" she asked.
"Not that they showed me," Daulo shook his head. "Though it hardly matters. As my father pointed out, there were plenty of people in Milika who saw you."
"Well enough to provide the investigators with a good description?"
He threw her an odd look. "Using hypnotics? Of course."
Jin gritted her teeth. She should have realized they'd have something like that available—her father's mission had noted the Qasamans' penchant for mind-enhancement drugs. "Yeah, I forgot about those. Well, maybe the disguise paraphernalia in my pack will be enough."
"You're not going to stay in Azras, are you?"
"Not with the alert already out for your car," Jin shook her head. "I'll head out of town, try to find a place off the road to hide the car in. With luck I'll be able to stay with it until the work party is formed on Sunday. Let me take a set of that cheap city clothing we bought—"
"Hold it a second," Daulo interrupted her, eyes narrowing. "You're not still going to try to get in there, are you?"
"Why not? Unless you told our friend Moffren Omnathi that was what we were planning. Oh, my God," she interrupted herself as the name suddenly clicked.
"What?" Daulo asked sharply.
"Moffren." The name tasted sour on her tongue. "Moff. The man who played guide to our first survey mission, thirty years ago. And very nearly nailed it." She shook her head. "Well, that's the end of the game for you, Daulo. First thing in the morning you find yourself a ride back to Milika and get out of here."
Daulo frowned at her. "Why? Just because the Shahni sent an old enemy of yours to ask me some questions?"
"No—because whatever pits there are in the story you told him, he'll find them," she retorted. "And when he does, he'll act. Fast."
"And you think running back to Milika will keep him from getting to me?"
Jin braced herself. "Of course not. But maybe it'll slow him down enough to let me get into Mangus."
For a long moment his eyes were steady on hers. "So that's what it comes down to, isn't it?" Daulo said at last. "Your mission."
Jin forced her jaw muscles to relax. "Would you have me run somewhere and hide?" she asked.
"Would you have me do so?" he countered quietly. "Would you have me go back to my father and tell him I gave up a chance to perhaps uncover a threat to our family because I was afraid?"
"But if they're watching you and you try to go into Mangus—"
"And if they're watching me and I try to run back to Milika?"
Again, they locked gazes. "Daulo, look," Jin sighed at last. "I know this isn't something a woman says to a man on Qasama . . . but I feel responsible for your safety. I talked you and your father into this scheme, after all, and if I can't be right at your side I may not be able to protect you."
"You didn't promise me any protection."
"Not to you, no. I did promise it to myself."
To her surprise, he smiled. "And I made a promise to myself, Jasmine Moreau: to protect you from your cultural ignorance while in Mangus. I can't do that from Milika."
"But—" Jin took a deep breath, sighed in defeat. She simply didn't have time to argue the point any further. The longer she lingered here, the more time Moff would have to weave a net around Azras, and she had to get Daulo's car out of town before that happened. "Will you at least think about it? Please?"
He rose from the couch and stepped forward. "I will," he said softly, reaching out to take her hand. "You be careful, all right?"
"I will." She hesitated, looking up at his eyes. Cultural differences, she reminded herself distantly. He might take this wrong, but for once, she didn't care; the need to hold someone tightly was almost overpowering in its intensity. Leaning toward him, she put her arms around him.
He didn't pull away, nor did he attempt to make the hug into anything else. Perhaps with potential danger all around them, a simple nonsexual contact from a friend was something he needed right now, too.
For a minute they held each other tightly. Then, almost unwillingly, Jin pulled back. "You take care of yourself, too, okay?" she said. "And if you decide to stay . . . don't look for me in the work party."
He nodded, reaching up to stroke her cheek. "I understand. You'd better go now."
Three minutes later, the city clothing Daulo had given her knotted into a bundle on her back, she was back at the car. No one lay in wait near the vehicle; no one jumped out of the shadows or shot at her as she climbed in and drove away. Either the Shahni's people hadn't gotten the Azras part of their operation fully organized yet, or else Moff was growing careless in his old age. Personally, she wouldn't bet much money on the latter.
But for the time being she appeared to have gained a little breathing space, and she was determined to use it to the fullest. A few kilometers south of Azras—an adequate gap between trees in the forest—and she would have a place to hide for the next day and a half. A little face-shaper gel from her pack, perhaps a wig and some skin darkening, and she'd be able to walk into Azras Sunday morning without being recognized. And after that . . .
But there was no point in trying to think too far ahead. With Qasama's official government actively in the game, she had to be ready to play every move by ear. And hope that her Moreau family heritage counted for something besides just a name.
Chapter 32
"Like this?" Toral Abram asked, shifting his left foot in front of his right.
"Right," Justin nodded. "Now just uncurl your legs and drop onto your back onto the floor, pulling your knees to your chest as you do so."
The young Cobra obeyed, and a second later was spinning around, belly-up, in an awkward-looking fetal position. "And this is a military maneuver?" he asked wryly as he came to a halt.
"Trust me," Justin assured him. "You try that with your antiarmor laser firing and you'll look very mili
tary."
"If there's anyone left nearby to see you," one of the other Cobras lined up against the walls muttered.
"That is the basic idea," Justin nodded as a nervous chuckle swept the room. "Okay, Toral, off the floor. Dario, your turn."
One of the other Cobras took Abram's place in the center of the room and got into ready position. "Ceiling flip," Justin ordered; and a second later the Dewdrop shook as the Cobra jumped upward, bounced feet-first off the ceiling, and landed a handful of meters away from his starting point.
"One of these days," a voice at Justin's elbow muttered, "one of you is going to kick a hole in the deck doing that."
"Hello, Wilosha," Justin nodded to the middle-aged man who'd slipped unnoticed into the room. "Just can't get enough of the show, can you?"
"Watching the ship's structural integrity beaten into rubble always gives me a thrill," Second Officer Kal Wilosha retorted. "Haven't you practiced these more violent maneuvers enough?"
"No, but unfortunately we don't have the time to do it right." Justin raised his voice. "Okay, Dario, nice job. Don't forget to keep your hands up when you land so that you'll be able to fire if you need to. Now give the backspin a try."
"Yes, sir."
He did marginally better than Abram had. "Again," Justin ordered. "Remember that your nanocomputer will do a lot of the work on these basic maneuvers if you'll let it. Just get things started, relax, and let your body take it from there."
Dario nodded and set himself for another try. Beside Justin, Wilosha hissed through his teeth. "Problem?" Justin asked him.
"Just . . . wondering."
"What about?" This time Dario did better.
"Oh . . . Cobras." Wilosha waved his hand vaguely. "The nanocomputers, if you insist on specifics. Has it ever occurred to you that no one on the Cobra Worlds really knows anymore just exactly how the things are programmed?"
"I don't let it worry me," Justin told him. "The Academy supervises every step of the nanocomputer manufacture."
"Oh, right. So they supervise a bank of automated circuitry replicators—what does that prove? Does a list or printout exist anywhere showing exactly what the nanocomputers are or are not capable of?"
"What are you worried about, that the Dominion of Man may have planted a program bomb?" Justin asked quietly. The conversation, he noted, was beginning to attract his students' attention.
"No, of course not," Wilosha shook his head. "But there doesn't have to be deliberate malice involved to make something dangerous."
Justin looked at him for a long moment. It would serve the man right to expose him here and now, in front of a roomful of Cobras . . . but it would be a childish trick, and Justin was long past the age for childish tricks. "Cobras, take a break," he called. "Be back in fifteen minutes."
The others filed out without comment or question, and a minute later Justin and Wilosha were alone. "I hope it wasn't something I said," Wilosha commented, his voice almost light but his expression tight and wary.
"Just wanted a little peace and quiet," Justin told him, and threw a punch at the other's face.
Wilosha could never have evaded a serious attempt to hit him, not with Justin's Cobra servos driving the punch. But his reflexes tried their best, throwing his arm up in front of his face . . . and because Justin had his audio enhancers on and knew what to listen for, he caught the faint whine of servos from the other's arm.
"What the hell was that all about?" Wilosha snarled, taking a hasty step back toward the wall.
Justin made no move to follow. "Just showing you how easy it is for a Cobra to identify a Ject. Even with the restraints your nanocomputer puts on your servos, they still kick in to that limit when you react as quickly as you just did."
Wilosha's lip twisted. "A great technique, for sure. I can just see you walking down the streets of Capitalia throwing punches at everyone you pass. You could have just asked me, you know."
"Asked you what? I already knew what you were. This was just to prove to you that I knew."
"Of course. You probably had me spotted ever since we lifted, right?"
Justin snorted gently. "No. Only since you started showing up at every other practice with your mouth spitting venom and your eyes looking envious. What conclusion would you have come to?"
"I don't envy you," Wilosha snapped. Too quickly. "I come to your workouts to keep an eye on you—nothing more."
"Keep an eye on us for what? What is it about us that you're so afraid of?"
Wilosha took a deep breath. "I don't think this is the right time for a debate, Moreau. So you might as well get your team back in here and continue—"
He broke off as Justin took a long step toward the door, blocking the other's quiet move in that direction. "Actually, Wilosha, I think this is an excellent time for a debate," he told the other coldly. "Or at least for a little chat. There are some things I'd like to know, starting with why the hell you Jects are trying to make a lifelong career out of sour grapes."
For a moment Wilosha glared at him in silence. "You're not more than a couple of years younger than I am," he growled at last. "You must be feeling the first twinges of Cobra Syndrome arthritis. That's what the Lord High decision-makers of the Academy did to us: sentenced us to a premature death, and for nothing. Don't you think that's enough reason for us to be bitter?"
"No," Justin said flatly. "I'm sorry, but it's not. Nobody beat you over the head and forced you to apply to the Academy. You knew the risks going in; and if it didn't work out, then those are the breaks. Life requires certain sacrifices—on everyone's part. And as long as we're on the subject of premature deaths, you might recall all the Cobras who've died a hell of a lot younger than you are fighting spine leopards."
A muscle twitched in Wilosha's cheek. "I'm sorry. But it's not the ones who've died for Aventine that we object to."
"All of us have risked our lives," Justin reminded him. "You can't single out those who happen to have survived to vent your contempt at."
"It's not contempt," Wilosha insisted. "It's an honest and legitimate concern over the problems we see in the whole Cobra system."
Justin felt his stomach muscles tighten. "You sound like Priesly banging his fist over the net."
"So Governor Priesly's done the best job of putting it into words; so what?" Wilosha countered. "The point is still valid: that when you're on the outside looking in you get a different perspective on things. You Cobras see the prestige and physical power and political double vote; while we see the elitism and the arrogance that goes with absolute job security."
Justin favored him with a cold smile. "Absolute job security, hm? That's very interesting . . . especially given that that's exactly what Priesly's gotten out of you and the other Jects."
Wilosha blinked. "What are you talking about? The governorship isn't a permanent position."
"I wasn't talking about the governorship. I was referring to his status as head and chief speaker for a highly vocal political group. Think it through, Wilosha. Aventine can't simply get rid of the Cobras, for reasons you know as well as I do."
"We don't want to get rid of you, just alter your power structure to—"
"Just shut up and listen, will you? So all right; if the Cobras are always going to exist, why shouldn't an organization whose sole purpose in life is to oppose the Cobras do likewise?"
For a moment Wilosha stared at him. "Are you suggesting," he said at last, "that Governor Priesly started this whole movement solely to create a political base for himself?"
Justin shrugged. "You know more about the inner workings of your group than I do. Is that how he's using it? You might start by deciding whether or not you were this bitter about being rejected from the Cobra Academy before Priesly told you you ought to be."
"You're twisting the facts," Wilosha growled. But he didn't sound totally convinced. "Through Priesly we threaten your elite status, so of course you try to impugn his motives and activities."
"Perhaps," Justin said quiet
ly. "But I didn't send someone charging into his office trying to make the Jects look like dangerous homicidal maniacs. Think about it, Wilosha. Do you really want to be on the side of a man who deliberately mangles truth in the name of political power?"
Wilosha snorted. "You're skating pretty close to slander," he said. "Unless you have some proof that that incident happened the way you claim it did. Some proof besides your brother's word, of course."
Justin felt disgust rising like bile in his throat. "Oh, for—" He took a breath, released it through clenched teeth. "Just get out of here, Wilosha. I haven't got time to waste arguing with someone who's already decided to let the party do his thinking for him."
Wilosha's face darkened. "Look, Moreau—"
"I said get out. We've got work to do."
The other opened his mouth, closed it again. Eyes on Justin, he sidled past the Cobra and out the door. The dull metal panel slid closed, and for a moment Justin stared at it, listening to his heartbeat slowly settle down and wondering if the talk had done any good at all. He could almost sympathize with Wilosha; the man was, after all, a would-be Cobra, and a strong sense of loyalty was high on the list of qualities the Academy screened its applicants for.
On the other hand, so were intelligence and integrity . . . and if he'd knocked even some of the stars out of Wilosha's eyes, the other might at least start watching Priesly's moves and words more closely. And if he found sufficient truth to the idea that Priesly was being corrupted by his own power . . .
It might help blunt Priesly's power. But it wouldn't help bring Jin back.
Clenching his teeth, Justin took a ragged breath. She's alive, he told himself firmly. Just as he had through the long and sleepless nights of the past four days. She's alive, and we're going to get her out of there.
Stepping up to the door, he slid it open and stepped out into the corridor. "Cobras!" he bellowed. "Break time's over. Get back here—we've got a lot of work ahead of us."
Chapter 33
The crowd milling around the Azras city center was large and noisy, composed mainly of youths and seedy-looking older men. Some, the younger ones especially, seemed to be radiating a combination of impatience and desperation, but in general the mood of the crowd was that of slightly bored normality. At one end, seated at a table, city officials took names of each of the would-be workers, keying them into portable computer terminals where the names were—presumably—ranked according to previous work history, skills, and other pertinent information. Working his way slowly toward the table in what the city dwellers probably considered a neat line, Daulo fought against his own nervousness and tried to look inconspicuous.
